...But Then There's Booze

I love how all my pens
Promote some prescription pill.
I love how I can pick out the smell of Ibuprofen
Like a turtle dove can pick out your pockets.
I love that I was on the floor,
perferated scars pulsating the educated,
bleeding like a coke-feind,
eyes red like my lighter,
throat stinging like a heartache,
hands shaking like an addict,
shuffling it with my school-ID,
and sucking it up like a whure at 4AM,
stuck inside a Mobil in the pissing rain,
with yer 20 dollar bill.


But then there's booze, and booze again, and booze and men, and booze and a dime, and all that booze and too much time...


Inebriation, justification, fabrication, realization, a hell of a numb sensation...


Touch the beaded ring and you realize you can't sing and you start screaming out loud at no one in particular about Ling Ling the whorse...

Shit, is that my SKIN?


I love how I can't piss or even walk straight,
I love that I feel compelled to wear heels in the house,
trying not to wake up an infant upstairs,
but your heels drag on the hardwood floor and you feel like
you're a whore,
broken and poor,
still tore up from 5 weeks before.
You wanna mate.
You scream at no one in particular and to yourself,
SOMEDAY NEVER COMES, MOTHERFUCKERCOCKSUCKERNIGGERLOVER!



You really have to worry though,
when you start drinking alone,
it means you're becoming dangerously prone,
to becoming alone.

Desperation, sexual frustration, exaggeration, medication, temptation, pathological desire, how're you're drawn to

touch
and play
with fire.



They always ask me why I do it, knowing what I do.
Well, I always say,
There was fuckin' else ta do.